A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Such a beauty, but I’m not pleased James spent so much on me.”

  “I did try to dissuade him. He was determined.”

  “Once we met, I better understood.” Helen reached into her bag. “I brought it with me.”

  “You did?”

  Helen handed the book to Lucy. “When James gave it to me he showed me a picture, but I don’t know where it’s gone.”

  Lucy held it between her palms. “This is a favorite of mine. An early edition bought at auction by a collector in London.” She gently laid it in her lap. “I believe it came originally from an estate sale in Yorkshire and I don’t think he would’ve let it go, but he was forced to liquidate his library . . . Just think, a copy that hasn’t traveled far from its home since written and published over one hundred and fifty years ago.” She opened the cover and fanned the pages on their edges, sliding them minutely apart. The picture of Jane and Rochester reappeared. “Here is what you’re after . . .”

  “There it is. It’s absolutely lovely.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Lucy handed the book back. “Some say they’re tacky because they weren’t originally printed with the book, but I love them. They’re special, like secret treasures, and always make me smile.”

  “I agree with you.” Helen glanced past Lucy’s shoulder to the bookshelves. “You have quite a focused selection here.”

  “Victorian. I try to buy for value, but it happens to align with my interests at present so I’ve probably gone overboard. My budget won’t let me near Austen and Regency or even twentieth century right now, except for a few Russian novels, and they leave me vaguely uncomfortable.”

  “Good fiction can do that. Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment is a favorite of mine.” Helen stood and moved to examine a small sculpture sitting on a nearby chest. “Tell me more about your family. I find your accent fascinating.”

  “Ah . . . my South Side meets the West End?” Lucy joined her. The bronze sculpture was about the width of a hand and twice as tall, an abstract interpretation of an elephant. “It’s from my father. I don’t think of myself as having an accent, but some words come out a little more rounded and my intonation sweeps up at times. And I’ve never even been to England.”

  “At dinner you said your grandmother was from London.”

  “My grandfather moved over there in ’57, I gather, and met and married her. She died in ’75 and my grandfather brought my dad, their only child, back to his home. He was something like third generation Chicago and missed it a lot.” Lucy shrugged. “But my dad never thought like that. He tenaciously held on to his accent and moved us everywhere when I was a kid. Then when he left us, Mom came back home to Chicago too. She grew up on the north side—though she moved out to Rockford when I went to college, almost a decade ago.”

  “Well, it’s a lovely accent.”

  “Thank you. I got my love for books from my dad too.” Lucy pointed across to the shelves. “He used to read to me all the time and his accent was strongest when he read English authors or children’s books. I think that was because he always chose his favorites, books his mum read to him.”

  “ ’57? I imagine things were still quite unsettled over there after the war.”

  “Dad didn’t talk about his childhood much. But, working in arts and antiques, I’ve learned you’re right.”

  Helen stayed a few more minutes, falling into a fairly easy conversation on books, antiques, and life. As she left and Lucy locked the door behind her, Lucy felt a soft questioning as to whether the visit had been a social call or an interview.

  Chapter 6

  Sid pushed through the door long after the gallery closed. Well beyond when Lucy should’ve shut off the lights, locked the door, and headed home.

  “Why are you here? It’s too late.” He moaned and dropped three fabric books and two bags onto his desk.

  “I’m still behind, Sid. We’ve been busy, too busy. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that and it’s only April. We may need more help when fall ramps up again.”

  “I agree. Walk-ins are up and that’s telling, right there. I sold the Louis XV wedding armoire today. Fifteen minutes and . . .” Lucy briefly searched her screen. “A Lila Jenson plopped down twenty-two grand. The guys will deliver it tomorrow.”

  She watched Sid rub his eyes, noting the circles beneath.

  “I’m glad that piece found a home. Good job.” Sid stretched his back. “Spring is always like this. I love it, but I’m getting older too. And you? Go home, call your friends. You should be out. Antiques, by definition, cannot be urgent. The air is soft tonight, highly unusual, and it won’t last. Go have fun.” He waved his hands toward the door. “Go. Go. Call James.”

  “It’s the last week before the partners meet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t been home all week. I’ve barely heard from him.”

  “You’re no better. Are you sharing in the crazy?”

  “I’m catching up. We’ve got our own crazy.”

  “Well, I give up.” Sid palmed his car keys and waved. “See you tomorrow, mon coeur.”

  Lucy finished the billing then strolled through the gallery, making sure everything was in place for the next day. A few items had to be tilted this way or that and the work was done within minutes. She ran her finger over the chests and tables and recalled her parched nineteenth-century American one at home. Must remember the furniture oil.

  She lit a gardenia candle and it reminded her of the day James first asked her out. She breathed deep, waiting for the scent to give her a lift before she grasped the linen cloth from her desk drawer and headed to the books.

  Sid’s warning about one faulty sale had stung for two weeks. And like a child, fearful of fire, she’d stayed away from the sellers she knew posed a risk. The books she’d already purchased from them gently condemned her and pricked her conscience every time she dusted, sold, or even touched one. Sid trusted her judgment and had even handed over the gallery’s small but growing antique book business completely to her care. She knew she had violated that trust, but was unsure how to fix it.

  Lucy reached up and pulled down an early edition of Wuthering Heights and carefully spanned the pages to see the portrait of Cathy emerge from the edge, with Heathcliff standing guard behind her. She sighed and let the pages rustle into place as she settled behind a small writing desk. “Just a moment, then home.” She gently opened the book and started to read. A perfect misanthropist’s Heaven—and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us . . .

  The door grated as someone pushed it open. Lucy jumped up, realizing she’d forgotten to lock it.

  James walked in.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” She laid the book down and reached out her arms. She pulled away as she absorbed his expression. “What’s wrong?”

  James approached her, pulling his bag strap from his shoulder. “Remember how you told me inscriptions, the provenance, increase the value of a book? Tell the story behind the story?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I was at Grams’s last night and she thanked me again for that Jane Eyre.” James reached into his bag and pulled it out. “This Jane Eyre. And I looked at it, really looked at it, and I noticed something. Then I went and got Kidnapped.” He reached back in and pulled out Kidnapped. He laid both books on her desk and crossed to her bookshelves. He pulled out several volumes and slapped them down on the ledge.

  “James, I . . .” Lucy’s voice died as he opened one, two, three . . .

  “All different names, I’ll give you that. But the same handwriting. Lucy? Why?” He turned back to her.

  “I . . . I wanted them to be valued.”

  “They’re stories, Lucy. They aren’t people. They aren’t real. They are valued for what they are, nothing more. And this—what you’ve done—devalues them. And you.” Lucy opened her mouth, but he went on. “I trusted you. I thought you trusted me enough to be h
onest with me.”

  “This was different . . . It was meant to create a sense of connection—to tell a good story.”

  “I had to tell Grams and my dad.”

  “What did you say?” Lucy stilled.

  “I took their books, Lucy. I had to explain. Everything.”

  “What exactly does that mean, everything?” Lucy held her gaze steady. “You told them about my father?” Her voice ended in a whisper.

  James didn’t reply.

  “I see . . . We’re lumped together now, aren’t we?”

  “That’s not fair. I—”

  “No. I get it.” Lucy felt tears prick her eyes as she cut him off. “I wasn’t criticizing; I wouldn’t want to disappoint them either.” She held both hands in front of her. “You say they’re tough and have expectations, but they’re good people and . . .”

  “Just tell me you didn’t do it. That it was a mistake.”

  “You want me to lie to you?”

  “Now you stop lying?” James snapped back.

  “James—”

  “I have to go.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles. “We can’t keep those. I’ll e-mail you after I sort out what to do.”

  Lucy heard the “we” and knew lines had been drawn and doors shut. “I’ll refund your money.”

  “I don’t care about the money right now!”

  “I know.” Lucy nodded.

  He grabbed his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “This late?”

  His shoulders slumped. “I’ve got only a few hours left and it’s too hard, Lucy. This is too hard. Last week, I worked one hundred and twenty hours. This week will top it. And Dawkins, that partner I pointed out at the restaurant, gets this gleam in his eye every time he sees me, because he knows he owns me. I’m so tired of being used. Maybe if I wasn’t in this place, I’d have a better sense of humor about this, I could fight for . . . I don’t even know what. But I can’t.” He pulled open the door and walked out without another word or look back.

  Lucy followed him and locked the door. Through the glass, she watched him cross the street and turn at the corner. Part of her wanted to run after him, but most of her knew to stay. James was tired, strung-out, and he was right. What could she say to change that?

  She stepped back to her desk and picked up the books. Kidnapped and Jane Eyre. They were there when she met James and now they’d witnessed the end. She carried them to the bookcase and carefully restacked each of the books James had slapped down—Oliver Twist, North and South, The Tenet of Wildfell Hall, Dickens’s Christmas Books, and a copy of Charles Lamb’s Adventures of Ulysses signed by Mary Shelley. Genuinely signed by Mary Shelley.

  Lucy gripped the last one tight. What were you thinking? What more did this or any of them need? She placed it on the shelf, running her finger across the stack of spines. All the books, with their worn warm covers, were special, in and of themselves, and James was right; they needed nothing from her. Lucy slowly shook her head as she finally tucked Kidnapped and Jane Eyre beside them.

  Locking the glass door, she took in the gallery. It looked exactly as it had fifteen minutes earlier. Yet now every book felt tainted, the antiques clouded and cold. The spectacular MacMillan vase mocked her, and the oversweet scent of the gardenia candle cloyed in her nose. Lucy clamped her fingers over its wick. It burned her and sputtered out.

  Chapter 7

  Lucy straightened from filing as the front doorbell chimed. She smoothed her long ponytail and rushed to the front, hoping to find James. Three days and he hadn’t answered her texts or calls.

  Her smile faltered. “Helen, how are you? James mentioned you’d caught a cold.”

  “The cough is still there. Doctors say it could take several more weeks to clear. I’m on more antibiotics than I can count.” Helen huffed and laid her handbag on a small Queen Anne chest, leaning over the upright handles. “This getting old is not for the old.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My grandson tells me you have my Jane Eyre. I’d like it back.”

  “I have his father’s Kidnapped too.” Lucy pulled them down. “Here they are. Did he tell you why I have them?”

  “He did, but it’s still mine and I love it. He had no right to take Jane Eyre without my permission.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I can reprice them. There are algorithms for calculating valuations. Or I can refund his money.” Lucy dropped her hands to her sides. “I don’t have any excuse to give you, Helen. Sid doesn’t know, so please don’t think he—”

  “Hush.” Helen held up a hand. “A little ink on the title page didn’t affect my enjoyment of the book before I knew you were the author of that ink. Why should it bother me now?”

  “It should,” Lucy declared.

  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t. You and I aren’t going to discuss this anymore.” Helen waved the two books in her hands and gently placed them in her bag. With the same motion, she retrieved a slim silver case. “I have something else I want to discuss, but not now either.” She took a deep breath. It rattled in her lungs and emerged on a soft cough.

  Lucy watched as she slowly worked the case’s small latch.

  Helen’s fingers fumbled a few times before the case popped open on a tiny spring. She handed Lucy a stiff white calling card. “My address is on the back. Will you come to my apartment tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” Lucy wondered if Helen was waiting to canvas the issue with Sid then.

  “Don’t look as if I’m going to eat you.”

  “Do you want me to bring Sid?” Lucy ventured.

  “I want to talk to you and there’s nothing you need to bring. Well, your laptop might help. Let’s say ten o’clock?”

  “Okay.” Lucy fingered the embossed card. “Did James say anything . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with James.”

  “Is he okay?” Lucy asked the question softly.

  Helen’s eyes softened. “He seems to be doing about as well as you are. But James doesn’t bend easily, dear.”

  “I wouldn’t want him to, really . . . Except in this case.” Lucy rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Why do you want me to come tomorrow?”

  “I have a favor to ask.” Helen lifted the black Hermes bag and draped it over her arm. “And tomorrow is Wednesday. You said it was your favorite day, so it’s the perfect day to discuss things.”

  Sid was twenty minutes late. But what an entrance! Lucy recognized him from his highly buffed cap-toed oxfords and his rich brown wool pant legs. And if his clothes hadn’t provided enough clues, the bag of fabric remnants hanging from his wrist gave him away. The rest of him, however, was lost somewhere behind the largest bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen. She hurried across the floor to help.

  “I’m simply speechless,” Lucy simpered. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Cute. They’re for Bitsy Milner. A final flourish to finish the house.”

  “You’re late.”

  “I called her and told her to expect me at three o’clock. Gerald took longer to build this than he anticipated.” He rested the broad crystal vase on the worktable. It was filled over two feet high with layers of tight roses, peonies, tulips, and other bright, strong flowers, artfully cloistered between and around paler, softer buds, dense and precise.

  “There are over a hundred flowers in here and the vase is stunning. This must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “It’s heavy enough.”

  “Thank goodness I didn’t handle the order. I wouldn’t have imagined anything like this.”

  Sid dropped into his desk chair and rolled back a few feet to see the flowers from a distance. “What would you have chosen?”

  “I guess looser, wilder ones in softer tones. Like a garden all mixed together with greens and grasses, maybe in a silver vase.”

  “It sounds beautiful and just like you. That’s the secret of design, you know, to listen and to look. You have to find what excites
a person, brings her alive, and lets her feel safe and yet . . . exotic. It’s easy to build a showpiece. Harder to create a home.” He rolled himself toward her, dangling the bag from his fingers. “And here you go for your own home, the remnants from the Saltner job. There are some gorgeous ones in there. You’ll need to show me your project soon.”

  “I will.” Lucy smiled warmly. She knew Sid would appreciate her panels and understand them. “When it’s finished, you’ll be the first.”

  Sid studied her. “I’ve got another surprise for you too.”

  Lucy looked down at herself, following his line of sight. She was wearing black heels, buffed and polished. Black tights. Pale lavender velvet skirt, circa 1960s, but perfectly tailored and ending precisely midknee. Thin, black cashmere sweater, sleek and tucked in. The straightened blunt ends of her ever-present low ponytail lying over her shoulder. “What?”

  “It’s like the flowers. You’ve found what suits you. Four years ago, you interviewed in jeans, gray wool Converse, and a sweatshirt. Now I find a poised woman before me, dressed with the quality and understated elegance of an antique, and I know she’s ready for this surprise. Ready for her first consulting trip.”

  “A trip?”

  “Helen Carmichael called my cell about half an hour ago. She’s planning a shopping excursion to London and needs a consultant.” Sid squeezed her hand. “You’re up.”

  “London? She was here this morning; I’m meeting her at her apartment tomorrow. She said nothing about a trip.”

  “She mentioned that. She wanted to clear it with me, as your boss, first.”

  “I don’t know, Sid.” Lucy took a step back and felt her hand reach up and circle her neck. “She’s James’s grandmother.”

  “What?” Sid’s eyebrows shot up toward his forehead. “How could you not tell me this? Really, Lucy, you’ve been holding out on me.”